


HSWC Bonus Fills

by Azzandra



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/F, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, General Cronus Douchebaggery, Incest, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:37:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 6,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fills I did for the HSWC bonus rounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cronus<3Kankri

**Author's Note:**

> The theme for bonus round 1 was "Quotes". I will include the prompts in notes at the beginning.
> 
> For the first one,
> 
> Cronus<3Kankri
> 
> "You can't just walk out of a drive-in." --Danny, Grease (1976)

There's an art to attending parties that Cronus has almost down pat. Mostly his technique consists in projecting an air of 'yeah, this is an alright party, I guess, I'll stick around for a while, whatever, but it's not like I don't have better places to be' and surrounding himself with other like-minded trolls.   
  
What this means is that at any given social gathering, he ends up standing in a corner with a handful of other seadwellers, acting aloof and mildly disdainful.  
  
“You notice how many warmbloods there are?” one of them says in a hushed tone. “Not that there's anything wrong with being a warmblood,” she hastens to add. “But you know. It's all about the  _tone_  of a place, you know?”  
  
“Careful,” Cronus says with a lopsided smile, “that's darn near casteist of you.”  
  
They all have a snicker together. A look around the room reveals that the general hue tends more green than anything, with only a small smattering of warmbloods, dotted throughout the crowd. The cooler shades hang together in clumps, like Cronus and his seadweller companions. They're not really friends, and he doesn't know half of their names, but Cronus finds them tolerable to stand next to, and that's really all he needs.  
  
He looks over the crowd furtively, but doesn't spot Kankri anywhere. With luck, he's holed up in a corner, lecturing some poor unfortunate soul, and won't rear his head for the rest of the night. Cronus takes another sip of his beer and squelches the confused feeling of almost-guilt the thought produces.  
  
He turns to the other seadwellers to propose they leave for somewhere more interesting, like an empty parking lot, to get shit-faced together, but he feels a tug on the back of his shirt.  
  
Cronus can feel the dread like a black hole in the pit of his stomach, and when he turns around and faces Kankri's ugly nerd shirt and pulled-up pants, he wants to melt into the floor.  
  
“Cronus, take me home,” Kankri says imperiously.  
  
The seadwellers burst into incredulous laughter.  
  
“Way to go, stud,” one of them says, elbowing you and winking, “you don't even have to reel 'em in, they just jump right into your open arms.”  
  
“He's my matesprit,” Cronus growls with a sudden spark of possessiveness, and the leering and laughter dies down immediately.  
  
“Take me home,” Kankri says again.   
  
There's something wrong, Kankri's back is stiff and his eyes are a bit too shiny and the way he talks, it sounds like his voice is just about to crack. Cronus can count on one hand the number of times he's ever seen Kankri Vantas about to burst into tears, and most of those times it was because he was overwhelmed in the middle of a passionate speech about whatever bullshit of the week he was busy getting offended over.  
  
“Whipped,” someone whispers, then coughs to cover it up.  
  
Cronus sets his jaw and shoves his beer into someone else's hands. He casually throws his arm around Kankri's shoulders, turning to angle him in the opposite direction.  
  
“Aww, what's wrong, champ. Not having fun?” Cronus asks, gently guiding Kankri away from the cool crowd. He throws one final long-suffering look over his shoulder, 'warmblood quadrants, what can you do?', and he gets a few sympathetic glances in return.  
  
Satisfied that the situation has been salvaged, he turns his attention to Kankri.  
  
“I just, I want to go home,” Kankri says, sounding so careful not to let his voice shake that Cronus gets a lump in his throat.  
  
“Well, I told you, didn't I?” Cronus says. “Parties like this just aren't your jam.”  
  
“I know,” Kankri whispers.  
  
He's being so concise, Cronus almost feels alarmed.  
  
“Well, you're putting me in a real pickle, sport,” he says. “I've got all these people expecting face time from me. I can't just abandon them, you know? What kind of cad would I be then?”  
  
Kankri crumples a bit.  
  
“Oh,” he says. “Yes, I suppose it would be uncouth of you to leave so suddenly. You might risk insulting or hurting people's feelings.” But he still manages to sound disappointed, and Cronus feels a twinge of... nah, couldn't possibly be guilt.  
  
“How about you go on your own?” Cronus suggests. He reaches into his jacket and takes out his stipend card, shoving it into Kankri's hands. “Take a cab back to your hive, on me.”  
  
He almost expects Kankri to burst into a tirade about how this enforces harmful social narratives of warmbloods being financially dependent on their cooler-blooded quadrants, but for once, Kankri is too despondent for that kind of thing. He winces at the card, but nods with resignation.  
  
“Okay,” he says in a small voice.  
  
“Kan, hey,” Cronus says, rubbing his cheek against Kankri's temple after making sure nobody can see him do it. “I'll make it up to you, alright?”  
  
“Yeah,” Kankri says airily.  
  
“I mean it,” Cronus insists. “Not like that time I spilled paint all over your protest signs. I'll really make things alright with you.”  
  
“I know you mean it,” Kankri says, and unspoken between them hang the words 'but you won't really do it'.  
  
Cronus feels that twinge again, but pushes it down.  
  
“Great,” he says, all but pushing Kankri out the door. “See you tomorrow, then.”  
  
He goes back to the corner with all the seadwellers.  
  
“Got rid of your limpet, Cronus?” someone asks with a crooked grin. Cronus laughs and takes his beer back.  
  
Briefly, he wonders if he's a bad matesprit. Then he immediately dismisses the thought. Nah. Couldn't be. He's a real catch.


	2. Rose<3Roxy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rose<3Roxy  
> "I'm afraid of losing my obscurity. Genuineness only thrives in the dark." - Aldous Huxley.

It's three months into the relationship that you realize you've never even once seen Rose without her make-up on.  
  
You're sure you must be mistaken at first. You know for certain that Rose has seen your bare face on countless occasions, when you were fresh out of the shower, or after you took it off for bed. Which is what makes the entire thing even more conspicuous.  
  
But no, thinking back, what you recall are the numerous times when Rose pointedly avoided it. Like that one time you had a pool party, and Rose spent the whole day being little miss gothy-pants and avoiding water and sunlight like a vampire.  
  
You have to wonder if it's just one of Rose's eccentricities and whether or not you should get a clicky pen and start emitting theories on the subject.  
  
Haha, yeah right. Psychology isn't even a real science (you assure yourself uneasily).  
  
You approach the issue with your usual amount of tact.  
  
“Rosey, I think it's time we take this relationship to the next level,” you tell her one day.  
  
She extracts her head from between your legs to look up at you. Dang, you really should have considered your timing better.  
  
“I was under the impression that we were already on the penthouse suite of this relationship,” she replies. “I don't think there is any level above performing cunnilingus on one's ectobiological mother's alternate universe teenage doppelganger.”  
  
“Well, it's really the same level, 'cept I don't get lipstick all over my pertinent anatomy,” you say.  
  
She doesn't look pleased with this suggestion. Absolutely nothing on her face changes, but you can tell. You get chills.  
  
“Come on, it's not a big deal, is it?” you continue. “You've seen me without make-up oodles of times.”  
  
“That's hardly the point.”  
  
You sigh and slide down next to her on the floor.  
  
“It's okay if you don't want to, I just feel like you don't trust me,” you say.  
  
Something in Rose's face does change at that point.  
  
“You know very well that's not it,” she says sternly, “and any attempt to suggest I don't trust you is nothing more than a transparent attempt at emotional manipulation.”  
  
“Wait, I know this one, it's called deflecting!”  
  
“I'm not deflecting,” she grits out.  
  
“Then what's the fancy psychological term for it?”  
  
She frowns. Primly, she folds her hands in her lap and stares at them for a long time. You let her gather her thoughts, though you get pretty fidgety after a while  
  
“I just don't feel like myself without my make-up,” she admits after a time. “It's as if I'm incomplete. Open and exposed.”  
  
You don't know how to deal with that. Things got just about too heavy for you right there. You sit in silence for a long time.  
  
You nod as if you understand, even though you really don't. But you accept it.  
  
“I think we should get back to the pseudo-incestuous cunnilingus,” you reply.  
  
Rose rolls her eyes at you, but complies.  
  
You never broach the subject again.


	3. Mindfang<3Summoner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mindfang<3Summoner
> 
> "Dear dirty London in the pouring rain  
> I wish to God I was back on the sea again  
> Though that belongs to the world of never will be  
> There was never a wilder bastard than me on the sea  
> I could fuck all the whores in damnation me boys  
> Though they wriggled and hollered and made a great noise  
> Then I'd drink till I stank and then drink plenty more  
> And I won't go down to the sea any more" - The Pogues, Sea Shanty

It's the last night of your life. You don't know this yet, of course, but your entire body aches with a strange foreboding feeling.  
  
Rufioh is at the window, leaning on the windowsill and looking out. You don't know what he's looking at. Probably nothing pretty. The entire town is filthy, and this inn even more so. You can hear a group of drunks singing a sea shanty down below, loud and uncouth.  
  
“Come back to bed,” you say.  
  
Rufioh turns to look at you (smacks a horn against the wall, straightens up and only on the second try turns successfully, and some part of you just wrenches with affection for this fool you took as matesprit), and he smiles. He always looks vaguely fretful when he smiles. The sense of foreboding deepens.  
  
“Not right now, doll,” he says. “If we get started, I'll be late.”  
  
“Mutiny,” you mutter, but smile back at him fondly.  
  
Unbidden, a thought arises that you'll miss him when you're dead. It frightens you more than a flight of fancy should, and it must show on your face, because he suddenly looks worried.  
  
“What's wrong?” he asks.  
  
“I think I will never see the ocean again,” you tell him, hushed, because giving voice to the truth would be too painful. You realize too late that this also feels true, and it hurts you deep in that place where you still keep the smell of brine and the sight of moonlight reflecting on the waves.


	4. Signless<3Karkat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ”Building the future and keeping the past alive are one and the same thing.” -Solid Snake, Metal Gear Solid 2

He comes like doubt, at high noon, when the nightmares are strongest.  
  
You're sitting in the shade of an oasis at twilight, and you could swear you've seen this scene before, that it has played out a thousand times already, right here in your head.  
  
“You're doing well,” he says, and smiles in a way that makes small crinkles in the corners of his eyes.  
  
“Fuck you, I don't need your approval,” you reply, even though you don't know what he's talking about. “Of course I'm doing well, I'm not some useless pile of shit who can't tie his shoelaces without his lusus holding his gripping stub.”  
  
“You did better than me,” he continues.  
  
You're confused for a moment. Everything is blurry and indistinct.  
  
“You didn't let them make you suffer,” he says. His wrists are burned to the bone, and even the bone is charred and black. This doesn't frighten you, it just makes you feel sad and resigned. You wish it frightened you instead.  
  
“Who are you?” you ask, even though you feel like you already know this and the information just isn't presenting itself to you.  
  
“You'll remember soon,” he says, and cups your chin. He tilts your face up and kisses your mouth, wet and warm. It doesn't feel like the first time.   
  
You close your eyes, but remain aware of everything around you, as if you can see it in your mind's eye. You're dreaming (you're not).  
  
You pull away, gasping. “Am I dead?” you ask. You still have so many things to do.  
  
“No,” he says, smiling, “I am. You're the one who improved on my mistakes.”  
  
You don't remember.  
  
“This is a place for forgetting. But you'll remember when you wake up.”  
  
Will you remember him?  
  
“No,” he says, not sad, just quiet, “but you'll do me proud anyway.”  
  
You wake up in the evening with the feel of ghost fingers against your skin. You remember only that tonight is when the revolution starts.


	5. Sollux<>Tavros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’m not tired of you, but maybe you got tired of me 
> 
> It seems like every little thing I do makes you pull yourself away 
> 
> So I’m waiting for the sun, but you only see the grey 
> 
> Oh no - won’t you please come on home 
> 
> \- Aqualung, Lost

The sight that greets you the day after the big storm leaves you speechless.  
  
The rotund bodies of dead purple bees are scattered on the ground around the destroyed beehive. A few living ones buzz around, confused and lethargic, but you can already see from here that the queen's chamber took the brunt of a falling tree. There's no possible way she survived.  
  
You check anyway; dead bees crunch under your soles as you approach.  
  
Tavros, who accompanied you so far, stays behind. You can feel his apprehension and you know that he's waiting for your inevitable blow-up.  
  
And it does come. Half a sweep of seeking out the perfect bee, of crossbreeding, of careful planning to produce an apiculture network, and it was all ruined in just one day.  
  
You will never get a computer network up and running on this fucking planet. Why did you even try, you pointless piece of crap?  
  
You pick up the tree with your psionics, dislodging it from the remains of the beehive, and throw it into the distance. It flies completely out of sight—your psionics are even stronger now than in the game—and you scream, stomping your foot. You uproot another tree, and throw that one too. And then another.  
  
“Sollux--”  
  
You whip around to Tavros, growling. He recoils.  
  
Then he quietly looks down and walks away.  
  
You stagger over to the edge of the grove and collapse on the ground.  
  
You were doing so good. Your life was looking up. You had something to look forward to, and a good moirail to help you through the rough patches.  
  
Oh god, what if Tavros never comes back? He shouldn't. You're a failure in every single imaginable way. Tavros deserves better.  
  
You curl up on your side in the grass and stay like that for hours, thinking about how much you hate yourself. When you hear footsteps, you almost hope it's the clown douche. He hasn't offed anyone since arriving to this reward planet, but maybe he'll be willing to make an exception on account of what a useless sack of entrails you are.  
  
A glass jar is placed before your face. Something flutters inside.  
  
You spring up, grabbing the jar and holding it in your hands gently.  
  
You make a mortifying gurgling sound in your throat.  
  
“This is--” It's a queen bee. Purple and striped with black, but a close enough subspecies that you think crossbreeding with your surviving bees might be possible.  
  
Tavros sits down on the grass, folding his legs.  
  
“I wasn't sure, how to help,” he says, “and I still don't know if this is going to, fix anything, but I wanted to do something, so--”  
  
“Shoosh.” You place your hand on his face and pap him exactly twice. “Best boyfriend. Shoosh.”  
  
He grins at you.  
  
“I thought you were gone for good,” you admit.  
  
“Then maybe,  _you_  should shoosh,” he says, and paps your face in turn.  
  
The whole thing devolves into a shameless cuddle session soon enough.


	6. Dave<>Terezi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme for Bonus Round 3 was History.
> 
> For this fill, the prompt was: 
> 
> Dave/Terezi, any kind of quadrant 
> 
> The Dadaism movement, 1920's, New York

Dave never thought of himself as an artist, even though he adopted the trappings of an artist's life like a cheap suit, threadbare but comfortable, soft with the familiarity of routine. Eccentricity, at first, but habit next, until the strangeness turned into normality.  
  
Dada helped him think in the way that filled all the weird holes in his perception, all the things he couldn't put to words because the words didn't fit together right.  
  
There was this thing he learned about. They did it in Europe. Find a book or a newspaper, cut out the words. Put the words in a bag or a hat or a bowl, and then pick a handful at random. Release them from your hand, and however they fall, you have a poem. Dada.  
  
He tried it a few times, but always cheated, because there were blanks between the words that he always wanted to fill. In the space between two words, there is a whole story unfolding that his mind auto-completes.  
  
“Auto-completes?” Terezi asks, smoke escaping between her lips as she smiles. “Is that another Dada term? Should I know what you mean?”  
  
No, not yet. Seconds stretch for billions in the timescape inside Dave's mind, and he can see the meaning in the distance like a mountain on a foggy day. Farther away than it looks.  
  
“I can't tell if that's a long time or not,” Terezi replies. “Seconds aren't very long, but that sounds like a lot of them.”  
  
Almost as many as Terezi has all added up throughout her lifetime.  
  
“That almost made sense,” Terezi chides, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Not very Dada of you.”  
  
Oh, well, dang, look at that. Terezi's sanity field already taking effect, he can't even not make sense properly anymore.  
  
“Sanity field? Are you a goat? Is sanity a kind of grass that you're grazing?”  
  
Wow, no. She just killed it. She killed his beautiful baby metaphor. Dashed it against the rocks, spilled its brains everywhere.  
  
“I think it was stillborn,” Terezi remarks drily.  
  
Where would he be without her expert medical expertise. Probably having to live as an unwed mother, scorned by the community, an embarrassment to his family. Thank you, Doctor Pyrope.  
  
She puts out her cigarette in the ashtray.  
  
“You're lucky I'm not actually a doctor, or I'd have to charge you for the hour!” she says with a grin. “In fact, you're lucky there's not even a word for what we are.”  
  
Moirail.  
  
“I mean a real word,” she says, “not a made-up Dada gibberish word.”  
  
But it  _is_  a real word.  
  
He doesn't say that last part out loud, though.


	7. Aranea<>Latula<>Meenah<>Porrim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AraneaLatulaMeenahPorrim  
> 1967, Motown (or whatever the equivalent of Beforan Troll Motown would be), girl group

“I got it. 'Meenah and the Diamonds'.”  
  
“No,” Porrim said categorically. “We are not naming ourselves 'Meenah and the Diamonds'.”  
  
“Uh, excuse you, who died an' made you empress?” Meenah huffed.  
  
“I think Porrim's concern,” Aranea said, “is that the name you porpoise--  _propose_ , is a bit...”  
  
“Self-centered and rude as fuck?” Latula snorted.  
  
“Ah, thank you, Latula. Eloquent as always,” Aranea said, and sighed. “I was actually going to say that it isn't as inclusive as it could be.”  
  
“Not inclusive? How's it not inclusive? I'm Meenah an' you're the diamonds.”  
  
There was a collective sigh from three of the four people in the room.  
  
They didn't really expect anything to come out of their weekend hobby, but some sort of record company bigshot happened to be passing by Latula's hive during one of their jam sessions, and he was impressed enough to sign them on. He 'liked their sound', or at least that was as much as they could discern from his  _honey, baby, sweetie_  speech. He even liked their scandalous four-way moirallegiance, which they actually expected to be a deal-breaker, but apparently free love was 'all the rage' right now. He kept talking about how famous they would become, what a hit with the public they'd be.  
  
Meenah was, of course, delighted with the prospect of fame and riches. Aranea was completely dazzled by the idea of an exciting career in music. Porrim realized that fame could help considerably with her political activism. And Latula just thought it was 'rad' and spent the next week repeatedly high-fiving everyone she told about the record deal. Possibly she saw this as an opportunity to high-five a lot of people, but Porrim suspected they would need to have a different kind of jam session soon and try to tease out Latula's real feelings on the subject.  
  
But they don't even have a  _name_  yet. At the rate they were going, they would probably never have one.  
  
“Okay, how about this,” Latula said suddenly. “'Girlz'.”  
  
“You're spelling that with a Z at the end?” Aranea asked.  
  
“Hellz to the yeah.”  
  
“No,” Porrim said. “We are grown women and using such a term to describe ourselves would be too infantilizing.”  
  
Latula's face fell.  
  
“Well then, any of you dolls got any better ideas?” she asked.  
  
Aranea bit her lip. Porrim looked up at the wall.  
  
“Okay, cool, if you don't like mine, I guess we'll go with Meenah and the Diamonds,” Latula shrugged.  
  
Meenah jumped up and pumped her fist in the air. Then she held out both her hands, and Latula obligingly administered a highly vaunted high-five x 2 combo.


	8. Neophyte Redglare<3<Condesce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme for Bonus Round 4 was Double Reacharound FST. Prompters would make a playlist and name a pairing, and fillers would make a fill based on it.
> 
> The prompt for this fill was:
> 
> Neophyte ♠ Her Imperial Condescension
> 
> The Headless Waltz, Voltaire  
> Swallow, by Emilie Autumn  
> The Heart of the Sea, Flogging Molly

It happens by accident at first. It's during one of her little highblood parties, the kind where a bunch of crusty old aristocrats are all shoved together in a room with refreshments and tiny pastries in order to gossip about the state of the Empire.  
  
You don't even know what you're doing here. You're at least two shades lower than everyone else, and if you weren't known as the Empress's little black fling, you're sure you would have been laughed away at the door. They wouldn't even go through the effort of culling you, they'd just be rolling on the floor, incapacitated by laughter.  
  
Meenah is bored, of course—she bores very easily in her old age—and she drags you off to an abandoned hallway, and oh,  _now_  you know why you're here, just as she gropes at your chest like an impatient teenager.  
  
A chill runs down your spine when you realize you are wearing your necklace tonight, the Irons of the Signless Sufferer, right under your shirt.  
  
You panic at first—her hand strays dangerously close to it—and you grab her wrist.  
  
“Feelin' saucy tonight, eh?” she hisses. “That's alright, I can let ya win one--”  
  
You twist on your heel and slam her against a wall, pinning her, kissing her hard until your lips are numb. She chortles deep in her throat, delighted, and you kick her in the shin. This spurs her on even worse.  
  
After you're done, she smirks at you and comments about how she likes your spirit.  
  
You feel the Irons against your chest and smirk back, feeling an unexpected thrill at what you just got away with.  
  
During your next few encounters, you wear the Irons again, except not by accident anymore. A slick, acrid little tendril of joy twists in your stomach each time you get away with it. One of those times, you weren't even wearing clothes, and that take skills.  
  
 _Skillz_ , you think to yourself sometimes, chuckling. Rad Empress-wrangling skillz.  
  
It almost makes you wish you could tell someone, just so they'd high-five you for it.  
  
Nobody would, of course. Those loyal to the Empress would sooner cull you, and those faithful to the Signless would...  
  
They wouldn't like it, is all you know.  
  
Maybe it's a betrayal, but it doesn't feel like it.   
  
Because the day the Empress with fall, you know you will already have the noose ready for her, and you will not hesitate for a second. You  _know_.


	9. Aradia<3<Equius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aradia♠Equius
> 
> "Stop Wondering," April Smith and the Great Picture Show  
> "Black Horse and a Cherry Tree," KT Tunstall  
> "I Hate You," Rivulets and Violets  
> "When I Decide," My Terrible Friend

You bring her gifts.  
  
In another world, perhaps you'd build her things, but this is not the universe for that, and the metal you are used to working with is no longer freely available.  
  
You scour the planet and find all these tiny, precious things; delicate and lovely, just as she is. Gemstones and flowers. Seashells and feathers. Some are red and some are blue. Some glitter and some shine.  
  
They are not apologies, because you are not sure she would accept them.  
  
They are challenges.  
  
They are the bounty of this paradise she admires so much. She spends hours and hours (nights, weeks, months) exploring and marveling. Her eyes shine when she stumbles upon a new mountain, her mouth twists up at the corners when she has a new river to cross.  
  
She thinks herself a savvy traveler already, familiar with the secrets of this new planet.  
  
So you show her. You show her the small things she misses as she swings from tree to tree and lunges across canyons. You show her things from the earth and the sea and the air, the details she overlooks, the strange points of convergence between nature's random occurrences and the sensibilities of troll aesthetics. Accidents of art.  
  
You show her tiny, delicate things in your hands, hands that could crush but that no longer do so uncontrollably.   
  
She smiles strangely when you do. If she sees the challenge, she does not acknowledge it. If she accepts the challenge, then she does not see fit to inform you.  
  
But unbidden, something still swells inside your heart, pitch-black and searing hot, like fire licking against the walls of your chest. You despair at the thought that this should happen again, that this old spark you'd thought smothered has grown out of control as much as it has.  
  
And you start to suspect at some point—you don't know when—that she knows this. That she is not the noble lady that you have made her up to be in your head; that she is possessed of the pettiness and moral failings of her blood, and that she is letting you suffer on purpose.  
  
Perhaps you deserve it, you think in a small corner of your mind. But this behavior is still profoundly unbecoming.  
  
So you continue to bring her gifts. Precious things, beautiful things, things you don't think she deserves.  
  
And she accepts the gifts without acknowledging anything they imply. You watch her face, her hands, her posture. You watch closely.   
  
You don't see mocking in her eyes, you don't see exultation at your suffering. You see only a serene acceptance, and that is what twists the knife hardest.


	10. Dave<>Karkat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DaveKarkat
> 
> Lean On Me - Bill Withers  
> Song Of Our So-Called Friend - Okkervil River  
> I Want To Tell You - The Beatles  
> I Believe In You - Neil Young

It was the third time Dave entered the room that he noticed Karkat hadn't moved from his place, slumped on the floor next to a wall.  
  
He wasn't going to ask. He certainly did not want to ask. This was a sucker's game. He wasn't going to get tricked into asking Karkat what he was doing. It was probably nothing, anyway. Transient fits of ennui were common on the meteor.   
  
But the fact of the matter was, Karkat had been sitting there for about a day and a half, and Dave wasn't sure he ate or drank anything during this entire time.  
  
He sat down next to Karkat's limp form.  
  
“What?” the troll snapped.  
  
Welp, he was alive and breathing. After establishing that, Dave could very well leave.  
  
“Nothing,” Dave shrugged. But he didn't leave.  
  
Karkat sat in sullen silence for a few more moments, before his impatience got the better of him.  
  
“I'm sitting here until he stops ignoring me,” Karkat said loudly. His voice resounded through the vents. Dave gave a sidelong glance to the vent grill, because he knew perfectly well who Karkat was talking about.  
  
“Cool,” Dave said, voice neutral.  
  
“You're not going to comment on that?” Karkat scoffed.  
  
“Nah. On this meteor, we let people make their own fun.”  
  
He sat there for a while—they both sat, in complete and awkward silence—until Dave finally left without a word.  
  
Karkat curled up in a ball.  
  
He was only alone for half an hour before Dave returned carrying two cans of soda ( _not_  Faygo), and placed one in front of Karkat.  
  
Karkat turned his head to glare at Dave, but the latter was so busy sipping his own soda that he completely failed to notice.  
  
“What do you want?” Karkat snapped.  
  
“Just figured we should, you know, talk about stuff,” Dave shrugged. “Important stuff.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“I dunno. I forget right now,” Dave said, and took another sip of soda. “And I'm too lazy to get up. Maybe I should just sit here until I remember again.”  
  
“This isn't a public transportation terminal.”  
  
“Nah, those are way cleaner than this grimy floor,” Dave retorted. “Seriously, dude, at least don't let the germs come in contact with so much of your body. Your clothes are probably filled with gross diseases now. Have to burn 'em all before you go Typhoid Mary on our asses. Oh man. Too bad your name isn't Maryam. Typhoid Maryam. Shit, that would have been just  _gold_ , I can't believe you joke-blocked me like that.”  
  
Karkat hissed, but sat up, leaning against the wall.  
  
“Yeah, sorry about not being an adequate butt to your jokes, how shameful of me,” he grumbled. He popped the soda open. “Are you going to be here long?”  
  
“Probably not as long as you, seeing how you're probably going to be here forever,” Dave shrugged.  
  
He expected Karkat to argue, but Karkat did not argue. He drank his soda in silence.  
  
Later, Dave brought him a sandwich, but by that point they had both moved to the pile in the center of the room.


	11. Jane<3Roxy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jane<3Roxy
> 
> Jenny - Studio Killers  
> Alcohol - Barenaked Ladies  
> Between You And Me - Lemon Demon

“I hereby declare the first edition of the Lalonde/Crocker Slumber Party Bonanza started,” Jane's tinny voice came through the speakers of the laptop. The laptop was on the bed, of course, because you couldn't have a slumber party while sitting at a desk.  
  
Roxy hooted and popped open the bottle of wine. Except it didn't really make a pop, which was disappointing. She didn't have champagne, but she figured it was enough that she had anything at all at hand to drink to Jane's health.  
  
“I thought we agreed to call it the Crocker/Lalonde Rainbow Rumpus Slumber Town, though,” Roxy said.  
  
Jane frowned on the screen.  
  
“And I thought we'd agreed you wouldn't be drinking for the occasion,” she said sternly. Roxy shrugged and placed the bottle down on the floor next to the bed. “But no, we actually couldn't agree and you suggested we appealed to one of the boys for a tie breaker. Dirk was not online, but Jake agreed with my suggestion.”  
  
Roxy raised an eyebrow.  
  
“So,” she said, “talked to Jake lately, huh?”  
  
“Yes,” Jane replied.  
  
“About anything in particular?” Roxy continued.  
  
Jane's lips tightened.  
  
“No, not anything  _in particular_ ,” Jane said, her tone indicating that she knew exactly what Roxy was talking about, and  _you better stop it right there with this line of questioning, missy!_  
  
“Well,” Roxy said, almost too casual about it, “I guess even if you had, he wouldn't have caught on anyway.”  
  
Jane sighed. “I have to admit you're right.”  
  
“And I mean really, a long distance relationship? Not exactly appealing to a lot of people,” Roxy said.  
  
“Well, I don't think long-distance relationships are any bit less valid than face to face ones,” Jane said. “I suppose if you care about someone enough, you don't care what form that relationship takes, as long as you're both in it together.” Jane hesitated for a second. “Is that naïve of me?”   
  
“No, of course not!” Roxy said. “I think you're completely right. Distance shouldn't matter! Even with friendships!”  
  
“Especially with friendships, I'd say.”  
  
“Yeah! And even after friendships turn into different things.”  
  
“Ah—yes?”   
  
“Yeah, exactly,” Roxy said.   
  
On an impulse, Roxy reached for the bottle on the floor and took a swig of the wine. Jane frowned at her, so Roxy put the bottle away.  
  
“Hey, Janey,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “We're friends, right?”  
  
“Of course we are! Do you even have to ask?”  
  
Roxy grinned.  
  
“I think we can do better,” she said.


	12. Condesce<3<Sufferer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Condesce ♠ Sufferer
> 
> Church of Hot Addiction—Cobra Starship  
> War Pigs (cover)—CAKE  
> Two Against One—Jack White  
> Handlebars—Flobots

“You will repent for your actions eventually,” he tells her calmly.  
  
The Condesce laughs.  
  
“That what ya think, Surferer?” she replies. “Man, you're reely outta yer gourd if you think I'll ever egret spitting in your face.”  
  
“Egret?”  
  
“Waterfowl, ain't it? Lives on the sea?”  
  
“I think it's more of a fresh water bird, actually,” the Sufferer points out. The Condesce rolls her eyes. “We're getting sidetracked here. I wasn't referring to your unsanitary habit of assaulting people with your bodily fluids,” he says, “though I'd prefer for that to cease as well. I was referring to your needless instigation to violence.”  
  
The Condesce laughs and pulls at her bonds. The cuffs tying her wrists to the hospital bed are tight, and don't give way easily.  
  
“Don'tcha mean my revolution?” she says.  
  
“It's not a revolution,” he says evenly. “It's only a group of deviants who must be re-educated and reintegrated into proper Alternian society.”  
  
The Condesce rolls her eyes.  
  
“I just don't understand. Why can't you be like other trolls?” he asks, frustration finally spilling through his calm facade.  
  
“Cuz other trolls ain't happy bein' who they are anyway,” she replies.  
  
“Of course they are,” he says with a frown. “I've made sure they have everything they need. They don't suffer hunger nor cold nor disease.”  
  
“Nah, all they suffer is some douchebarge with a stick up his ass bassin' 'em around,” she says. “You know what they call ya, right? The Insufferable.”  
  
He sniffs in that offended way of his.  
  
“It's one of the many burdens I must carry,” he says, “that a certain minority of trolls should misunderstand and misinterpret my intentions so, and that they should fight against their own self-interest by rebelling against me. I do not carry this title for nothing. I know my lot in life, as leader of our people, is to care for even the most ungrateful individuals and never complain about it.”  
  
The Condesce laughs.  
  
“Bro, when you get like that, you reely make me wanna fuck you into a wall,” she says.  
  
The Sufferer immediately turns bright red.  
  
“Excuse me?” he bursts out.  
  
“You heard me, Insufferable,” the Condesce continues, glaring at him in challenge.   
  
His jaw hangs open.  
  
“I am-- I have foresworn quadrants! I've taken an  _oath of celibacy_!”  
  
“Yeah, an' I betta that's why you can't run the world worth shit,” she says.  
  
“You are obscene,” he says, but his eyes flick towards the door. “And what you're suggesting is completely immoral. You are a patient at this re-education center. The consent issues alone preclude any such sort of entanglement.”  
  
“Untie me an' I'll give ya a shitton a' conseant issues to worry aboat,” she says.  
  
“Obscene,” he mutters again.  
  
He leaves after that, but she's sure she's piqued his interest. And anyway, she's not the one getting re-educated today.  
  
When an orderly comes in to check on her, she turns to him and grins.  
  
“So are ya happy with that candyblood tyrant in charge?” she asks.


	13. Sufferer<>/<3<Summoner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sufferer ⋄/♠ Summoner
> 
> Rise Up, Flogging Molly  
> Crusade, Voltaire  
> Do You Hear The People Sing? (Finale), Les Mis

“This isn't what I wanted,” you say. “This isn't what's supposed to  _happen_.”  
  
He looks at you with uncomprehending eyes.  
  
“What did you think was going to happen?” he asks, smiling at you.  
  
You regard the blood-slicked ground, dark and shaded in every kind of purple, violet and blue, and you shake your head.  
  
“Not this, never this,” you mumble. “It wasn't... this isn't the world I was fighting for.”  
  
He takes your hands; rubs his thumbs over the burn scars on your wrists.  
  
“This isn't the world I suffered for,” you add, regarding those scars, that mangled flesh that indebts you to him. “This isn't the world I was willing to burn for.”  
  
“No,” he says, that smile still on his face. It makes him look years younger, like the callow youth he was when you first met him. “No, but it's the world that burned you, and it's the world that made you suffer, and it's going to be the world that burns and suffers in return.”  
  
“This isn't justice.”  
  
“No, it's revolution,” he says.  
  
He releases your hands and picks up his daggerlance.  
  
“Is that it, then?” you ask. “Once you don't need me to inspire the troops anymore, you no longer have to listen to what I have to say?”  
  
He looks at you sadly.  
  
“Don't say that, Kankri,” he pleads. “I'm doing this for you. I'm not leaving anyone else in the world who can hurt you.”  
  
“How could he possibly hurt me?” you demand. “How? All the other subjugglators are dead. The Empress is dead. Everyone even a shade cooler than Redglare is dead. Isn't that enough?”  
  
He seems disappointed in you—and how dare he?! How dare he be disappointed in you, when it should be the other way around?!—but he doesn't look like he wants to argue anymore.  
  
“It's just how it needs to be,” he says. “No exceptions.”  
  
And then he turns to the indigo troll, chained and kneeling on the ground. His clubs have long been taken away and his paint has been partially washed off by blood from a head wound, but he looks up at you with clear eyes.  
  
Even against your will, you are back again in that moment, on the jut, with those indigo eyes staring at you and a voice mocking, asking you to recant.  
  
But you are a forgiving man, you tell yourself again.  
  
“He's barely more than a wriggler,” you say.  
  
“So was his ancestor, once,” he replies, and drives a daggerlance through subjugglator-in-training Gamzee Makara.  
  
You feel a fire stoke in your chest, darker and more encompassing than ever burned your body. It consumes your soul all in one second, and when you look at Rufioh again, you feel as strongly about him as you ever did, but you can no longer see in him a moirail.


	14. Kankri<>Porrim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KankriPorrim
> 
> "Bad Dudes" - Michael Bowman
> 
> "Selfless, Cold, and Composed" - Ben Folds Five
> 
> "King of Anything" - Sara Bareilles

“Well, I think that was quite a productive session,” Kankri said.  
  
“You're joking, right?” Porrim asked, giving him an incredulous look. “Everything was going fine up until the point you decided to go on that absolutely ridiculous tangent about 'grub rights'.”  
  
They sat on opposite ends of the sofa, Porrim exhausted to the point where even her usually impeccable facade had fallen, and Kankri with his usual stiff self-assurance.  
  
“Are you accusing me of derailing?” Kankri said, suddenly aghast. “Because I assure you, grub right are an important and often overlooked area of troll rights and I think devoting a few minutes to discussing the issue is the bare minimum we could do.”  
  
“Two hours, Kankri,” Porrim hissed through gritted teeth. “Two hours you spent harping on how jadebloods oppress grubs by-- what was that phrase you used? Incarcerating them in the caverns?”  
  
“Yes,” Kankri said. “Yes, that is exactly what I said, because that is what happens.”  
  
“The grubs would die if they left the cavern too early!” Porrim said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “The caverns are part of our species's life cycle!”  
  
“I think we both know,” Kankri said, tilting his chin up in challenge, “that if that were truly a natural part of the development process, grubs would choose to stay in the caverns themselves and only leave when they felt it was appropriate.”  
  
“They're grubs! They're about as sapient as mealworms!” Porrim retorted, her voice rising. “The attendants to the Mother Grub take care of grubs, we don't  _oppress_  them!”  
  
“I don't see why you're so upset,” Kankri sniffed with superiority. “Our positions are perfectly compatible. You don't want to take up the duties of your caste, and the grubs don't want to be oppressed by you. Why are you yelling?”  
  
“I don't want to be coerced into lifelong servitude, I want to have a  _choice_ ,” Porrim growled, “that doesn't mean I want all the grubs to be left to die! Do you just not understand how nuance works?”  
  
“You're getting quite hysterical over this,” Kankri replied, composed.  
  
“Oh! The jadeblood is getting hysterical,” Porrim laughed bitterly. “That's a new line.”  
  
This time Kankri actually showed hesitation.  
  
“You're right, I shouldn't have trotted out that old casteist cliché. I'm sorry, that was unbecoming of me,” Kankri said. “I should, in the future, preface all such remarks with trigger warnings.”  
  
Porrim scoffed, but didn't have the energy to tell him that 'in the future', he should shove such remarks in some very painful parts of his anatomy.  
  
“Are you feeling better now?” he asked. “Have you calmed down?”  
  
“Almost. There's one thing you could do to help,” Porrim said. She picked up one of the pillows on the sofa and handed it to Kankri. “Hold this.”  
  
Kankri was befuddled, but held it up anyway.  
  
“What now?” he asked.  
  
“Now I punch the pillow,” Porrim said calmly.  
  
“That sounds like a very aggressive way of working out your frustration, you should probably preamble it with a trigger warn-- oomph!” He managed to hold the pillow tightly enough so it wasn't ripped from his hands and hit his chest, but he still fell back from the force of the punch.  
  
“Thank you for that,” Porrim purred sweetly as Kankri dropped the pillow and straightened himself huffily.  
  
“Of course,” he said. “What are moirails for?”


End file.
